


The Wide Open World

by ratherastory



Series: Fusion 'verse [27]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Dean a while to figure out that Sam doesn't go outside anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wide Open World

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note: So this isn't the Fusion story I was planning to write. Remember when I said I keep getting new ideas for the 'verse? Yeah. This is is what happens when I try to write for it. Things keep popping up unexpectedly.

In retrospect, Dean should have seen what was going on. He's not stupid, and he's not blind, but there's always this part of him that insists on being optimistic no matter how shitty life gets. In a way, it's probably a good thing. It's the only reason he kept going that year after Hell, that tiny voice at the back of his mind that kept saying 'Hey, maybe things'll get better after this!' The only time he ever gave up on listening to that voice, Sam kidnapped him and locked him away in Bobby's panic room until he started listening again –with a little help from Cas, too—and afterward he'd promised himself that would be the last time that he ever let the world beat him down like that.

But it's the same tiny little voice of optimism that insists on cropping up every time he starts thinking too hard about Sam, too, and that can be a dangerous thing. The little voice that says 'Sam's okay. So what if he's a little spacey? He spent a hundred and eighty years being Lucifer's bunk-buddy. Taking that into account, he's better than fine.' And it's a voice that's really, really easy to listen to. The thing is, he wants to believe it. Wants to believe that Sam is getting just a little better every day and that, even if he's never going to be one hundred percent ever again –if he ever was, a different, traitorous little voice adds in counterpoint to the first voice—then at least it's a linear progression from really horrible to a little better to maybe even a lot better.

Only it isn't.

It's Cas who makes him realize it, finally. It's been nice having him around on a more permanent basis, even if he's spent the past three weeks laid up with a horrific stab wound to the gut that's taking a lot longer to heal than any of them thought it would. Cas has been really good with Sam since he walked out of the Pit all on his own, picking up on things about him that would never have occurred to Dean even to look for or ask about, because his own time in Hell was so vastly different. Lucifer was an angel once, for better or for worse, and that's something that Cas gets in a way Dean never will, and he's grateful that Sam has someone around who at least understands a little of what happened to him.

After spending a week unconscious or delirious or simply too exhausted to talk, Cas started to mend, excruciatingly slowly, but unmistakably. Two weeks into his convalescence he started to sit up with a little bit of assistance, and now, a little over three weeks later he's been able to keep down solid food and even shuffle around the house a little bit, using one of Dean's spare canes to support himself when Sam hasn't been close to hand to help him, which is a rare occurrence in and of itself. Sam has barely left Cas' side the whole time, sticking to his routines in the house, making sure Cas was comfortable and safe and taken care of. Making sure the house stayed clean, the meals were cooked, the beds made, the dog fed. That dinner was on the table as soon as Dean walked through the front door after work, if that's what Dean wanted. And that, it appears, was the problem right there, except that Dean never noticed it until Cas pointed it out.

"Does Sam never leave the house?" he asks one evening. He's hobbled out onto the front porch while Dean smokes a cigarette (or three) to sit with him and shoot the breeze. It's quickly becoming a nightly ritual, and it makes Dean sad to think they might not have this for long, if Cas decides he wants to go back to Heaven after this. Dean even went out and got Cas a couple of sets of extra clothes to wear that aren't ruined by blood and that'll be more comfortable while he's still healing, and Cas looks good in them, more relaxed and less formal than usual. It's a look Dean likes on him.

"Sure he leaves the house. What makes you say that?" But Dean frowns as he taps the ash from the end of his cigarette, now that the seed of doubt has been planted.

"I haven't seen him go farther than the back garden, and even then he doesn't go all the way to the end. I thought at first it was solicitude on my behalf –that he was worried I might require assistance and he would be too far away to hear me if I called—but I am beginning to think that's not the case."

Dean takes another drag off his cigarette. He can't remember the last time they went out. He's been doing the grocery shopping lately, what with Sam having his hands full with the house and taking care of Cas –it's easy to get the groceries delivered, and doesn't cost all that much because they live nearby—and he and Sam stopped going on their walks in town and out into the fields for bird-watching a while back… It was right after Sam got sick, he realizes, tracing back the time in his head. He'd gotten the cast off his arm, and just when they were both breathing a metaphorical sigh of relief that things might finally be going back to normal, they'd both been hit in quick succession with that monster flu, and then Dean got himself sidelined with yet another flare of bursitis in his damned hip, which screwed everything up for a while longer.

It's easy to pinpoint now, and he could kick himself for not seeing it sooner. "Damn it. I thought he was better."

"He is better," Castiel says mildly. "But perhaps not as well as he tries to let on."

"I'll take him out tomorrow. He can't stay cooped up in the house, it's not good for him."

Cas just makes a quiet humming sound, like he doesn't entirely agree with him but isn't about to argue the point. Dean takes another drag off his cigarette, stubs out the rest in the empty coffee can they keep out on the porch. The idea of Sam locking himself up in the house for all these weeks –months, even, Jesus—is the most depressing thing Dean thinks he's ever heard. The fact that he never even noticed… well, that probably makes him the world's worst big brother ever, but there's nothing he can do about that now. The only thing he can do now is try to fix this. Sam used to go out on his own, there's no reason he can't start again, with a little coaxing.

He puts his plan into motion the first day he's off work. "I'm going to head to the bakery. You coming with, Sammy? We'll get you a cupcake if you're good," he jokes lightly, but he feels his heart sink when Sam just shakes his head, his face closing off. "Yeah, this isn't really negotiable. You haven't been out in weeks, you need some fresh air, dude. I've seen corpses less pasty than you."

Sam shrugs, carefully tilts his pills into his hand and swallows them with half a glass of water. Cas is sitting a little gingerly across from Sam at the kitchen table –he still finds sitting up for long periods of time a chore, but it's been getting better slowly—and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat but doesn't say anything.

"So, cupcake or muffin? Or we could splurge and get a pie," Dean offers. He's not above bribery if it'll get Sam out of the house.

Sam rubs his left hand with his thumb. "Sure," he says quietly, and that's good enough for Dean.

They haven't even crossed the threshold of the house before Sam balks, stopping just inside the door, rubbing harder at the back of his hand and glancing backward at the hallway. Dean lets Perry go out first, giving her a bit of leeway even though she's wearing her working harness, and she makes an unhappy whine at this complete breach of protocol.

"You coming?"

Sam nods, but his gaze is fixed on a spot just in front of his shoe. Dean can see him steel himself before shuffling out the front door, barely a few inches, before he reaches out to grab hold of one of the porch posts, as though to steady himself. Perry shoves herself back into her usual spot pressed against Dean's good leg, which means he can't take Sam's arm the way he otherwise might, and for a second he sort of regrets his decision to bring her this time around. Then again, maybe keeping things normal is best for now, will help Sam not feel like this is such a big deal. He limps down the stairs, looks back once he's on solid ground to see that Sam still hasn't made it past the first step.

"Shake a leg, Sammy!"

His brother comes down the five steps in a headlong rush, then, the way you might jump right into the water rather than try to adjust to the cold temperature, and by the time he reaches Dean he's sweating a little, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have turned white. Still, he's outside, and that's something, so Dean simply presses forward, Perry trotting carefully at his side, tail down because she's working and she takes her work very seriously, head held high. Sam shuffles along beside him, head ducked down, misery radiating from him like heat from the sun, and for about a minute Dean allows himself to think that maybe Cas was wrong, maybe this isn't as bad as they thought it was. Then it all goes entirely to Hell.

Sam stops dead about thirty yards away from the house. For a few moments Dean doesn't notice, keeps going until he realizes Sam isn't beside him anymore. When he turns back, though, Sam's already folding at the waist, hands over his ears, shaking like it's the dead of winter instead of well into the hottest part of the summer. _Shit_ , Dean thinks, and hurries back as fast as his damned bum leg will let him.

"Hey, Sammy, hey, hey," he tries, but it's obvious Sam isn't hearing him anymore.

"I have to go back, I have to go back," he's whimpering under his breath, just loud enough that Dean can barely make it out.

"Hey, okay. Okay, we'll go back, I'm sorry, okay? We'll go back."

"'s too bright, I can't see, I have to go back," Sam shakes his head, hands still over his ears, fingernails already starting to dig at his scalp, and oh no, that is not on. No way is Dean just going to stand here and watch while his baby brother mutilates himself with his own nails.

"Okay, okay, Sam. Sam, it's okay, we're going back now, you hear me?"

He catches one of Sam's wrists, trying to pull his hand away before he can hurt himself more, and realizes his mistake a fraction of a second too late.

"No!"

What little control Sam had left over his reactions crumbles away, and the next thing Dean knows he's wrenched free of his grasp and runs. It's not a controlled run, just a panicked sprint in whatever direction he thinks will take him away from whatever he's seeing in his mind, just around the nearest corner and back in the direction of the house. Even if Dean hadn't been knocked off-balance by the violence of his escape, there's no way he'd be able to catch him anyway, not like this.

"Fuck!" If there was a post around to kick, Dean would be giving it his all, fused knee or no fused knee. "Fuck!" he says again for good measure, turning back for home.

At least Sam went more or less in that direction along the street. He'll take what he can get, at this point. If he's really lucky, Sam will have found his way home, but even if he's reasonably close by, Dean will take it. He limps as fast as he can, Perry determinedly matching his pace and trying to prop him up in her own way, even though she's not really built for that sort of strain and definitely not trained to help that way. He stops short just a few yards away and breathes a sigh of relief, because Sam is still there. He obviously took a header –maybe tripped over the edge of the sidewalk because he couldn't see where he was going—is trying unsuccessfully to get up from his hands and knees. A few people are already turning to see what the commotion is, craning their necks to get a better view, and Dean tries to hurry before the crowd gets too big and freaks Sam out even more.

He catches up to Sam less than a minute later, winces when he sees that both Sam's knees are torn up, the jeans ripped and the skin underneath scraped and bleeding, as well as both his palms from when he went down. Sam's full-out panicking now, eyes rolling wildly in his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. He's hyperventilating so badly Dean's sure he's going to pass out –which might actually be a mercy at this point—keening softly in-between breaths, mouth working to make words that Dean doesn't even want to try to make out. He doesn't want to know what sort of horror he's inadvertently made Sam relive right out here in the open.

"Sam. Sammy!" he says sharply, knowing it's almost hopeless but not really knowing what else to do at this point. "Sam, it's me. Come on, we're right next to home. Let me take you back, okay?"

Sam either can't or won't answer him, just keeps drawing these impossibly short, hiccupping breaths and trying to both move away and get up at the same time, which only serves to tangle him up more in his own limbs. Dean can sense people coming closer, the crowd that's gathering around them, and feels his face heat up. He whips around and glares at them.

"This ain't a side show for your entertainment! Go on and give us some room, would you?" he snaps, and the woman nearest him recoils, face pale. He doesn't give a rat's ass about that, though, just so long as these rubbernecking idiots stay the hell away from his brother. "Come on, keep moving!"

When he looks back down again Sam has managed to drag himself a few paces away –still toward the house, thank God—and Dean has to perform an awkward half-skip to get himself and Perry to move in the right direction and catch up to him. He can't kneel next to Sam the way he wants –his knee guarantees he's never going to be able to do it again, and it's at times like these when he most bitterly regrets making that decision, even though it was the one that made the most sense—but he bends over as far as he can, tries to reach his brother just with his voice, futile as it might be.

"Sam, stop. Sammy, please."

He narrowly misses tripping over Perry in his attempt to get to Sam, and simply reaches over and unbuckles her harness. She turns her head to lick at his hand, then goes over to Sam and noses at his face, whining quietly. Sam stills, still breathing too fast for Dean's liking, but at least he's not panicking as hard, and when Perry licks his face once his eyes open, staring sightlessly at absolutely nothing Dean can see. He moves another pace forward, bends awkwardly and tries to pat Sam's leg, ends up mostly sort of brushing his jeans with the tips of his fingers, but it seems to be enough, because Sam shudders and turns his head, trying to focus on him.

"Sammy, you gotta get back up on your own. We're going home, okay? I promise. I'm sorry, but you have to get up by yourself. Can you do that for me? Just take it slow, okay? We'll go right back inside."

To his relief Sam somehow does manage to get back on his feet. It takes a lot longer than he'd like, but beggars can't be choosers, and his stomach twists unpleasantly when he sees how badly Sam is limping from his fall when they slowly make their way back to the front porch. Almost immediately, once they're inside again, Sam retreats against the nearest wall, the one by the front closest, slides down until he's sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, and sobs until Dean isn't sure which of their hearts is going to break first. He blows out his cheeks in a slow exhale, waves off Cas when the angel hobbles into the front hallway to see what's happening, then props himself up against the wall and lets himself slide down carefully to sit next to his brother and just wait for the worst to be over.

Sam spends most of the evening and part of the night right there, arms wrapped around his shins, although the tears dry up after a couple of hours, and he does let Dean give him the maximum prescribed dose of Ativan possible in order to get him to calm down a bit. Eventually Dean has to concede defeat and pull himself back to his feet so he can feed Perry and make sure Cas is taken care of for the night, coming back to check on Sam every few minutes only to find he hasn't moved at all. Sam doesn't appear to hear any of his entreaties to get up off the floor and go to bed, at least, if he can't do anything else, but he must do it at some point in the night, because in the morning Dean finds him curled up in the middle of his bed, eyes wide open and staring at the wall.

Dean limps over and sits on the edge of the bed, feeling himself slide a bit when it dips under his weight. He lays a hand carefully on Sam's hip, lets it rest there. "You feeling better?"

Sam nods jerkily.

"Okay, good. I'm sorry about yesterday, okay? I didn't know it would freak you out that much. You know I would never do that to you on purpose, right?"

That gets him another nod, and Dean exhales slowly. "All right, then. You want to come down and have breakfast? You make the coffee, I'll do everything else today, just this once. C'mon, no staying in bed."

He gives the hem of Sam's t-shirt a gentle tug, and obediently Sam pushes himself up off the bed and follows him to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and his hair and showers under Dean's instructions, but his hands are shaking almost too badly for him to manage any of it. He's biddable enough, though, and sits quietly on the edge of the bathtub while Dean perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, leg stretched out to one side, and carefully cleans and disinfects the nasty-looking scrapes on his knees and palms before bandaging them up with gauze and tape.

"There you go. Good as new," Dean tells him, and Sam just stares off to the side at one of the tiles on the opposite wall.

Sam is quiet during breakfast, doesn't say a word to either Dean or Cas, but he lets Dean coax him onto the sofa to watch a movie –some summer blockbuster from a few years back that Dean picked up cheap at the local video store—and curls up with his head in Dean's lap, Dean's hand resting on his shoulder so he can trace comforting circles on Sam's upper arm with his thumb. To Dean's surprise Cas joins them, wedging himself in the available space left on the sofa by Sam's feet, and when he puts one hand down on Sam's leg Dean feels his brother relax just a little bit more, like a frightened animal settling in its nest.

Dean goes back to work on Tuesday morning no further ahead than when he started. If anything, he's pretty sure he made the situation a whole lot worse without meaning to. Sam seemed okay enough this morning, but he's still pretty shaky and that left Dean feeling none too much like he was on solid ground himself. Sometimes he forgets just how much he's come to rely on Sam being _okay_ , on Sam always being right where he left him and just _there_ , rock-solid even if sometimes the world gets to be a little too much to handle. Dean helps Sophie open up the shop without a word, barely hears anything she tells him unless she repeats it, until she finally loses her patience.

"Where's your head at today?"

He snaps to attention at that. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm distracted. I just… Sam's having a hard time, and I think I kind of made it worse. Not on purpose, though."

She looks a bit more sympathetic at that, but her demeanour doesn't change. "You need some time off?"

"No, it's fine. Cas is with him, anyway. He'll call if there's anything."

"Okay. In that case, I need you to focus on the inventory, please."

Dean nods. Apparently there's nothing he can't screw up this week. "Yeah, I'm sorry."

Amanda is sympathetic too when he calls her and explains things a couple of days later, when racking his brains for other solutions hasn't yielded any useful results. "You want to bring him to the clinic?"

He shrugs, even though she can't see him. "He won't come. I couldn't get him out the front door without having him freak out. I haven't seen him that bad since… well, since he came back."

She makes a clucking noise with her tongue. "Agoraphobia's treatable, but it's going to be tricky with all of Sam's other issues. I can try to come by early next week –I'd come before, but the clinic's really busy these days, and—"

"No, it's fine," Dean interrupts. "I get it, I do, and we're grateful. Besides, Sam's okay as long as he's home, right? So, you know, come when you can, I'd really appreciate it."

"Don't worry," Amanda says soothingly. "We'll get this all sorted out."

"I hope you're right."

Dean tries not to think about it too much after that, just shoves it to the back of his mind until the time comes when he'll actually be able to do something about it. Worrying about it endlessly won't help Sam any, and he doesn't really want to add hypertension to his own already increasing list of medical issues. So he keeps his head down, focuses on his work, tries to keep things at home as normal as possible and not mention any of it. Sam seems content enough to go along with it, gets less jittery with each day that passes. Having Cas moving around more seems to be helping to keep him busy, too, which Dean guesses can only be a good thing. The weekend goes by quietly, with Sam puttering from room to room, dust rag in one hand and a can of Pledge in the other, and Dean doesn't have the heart to even tease him about his little OCD thing about dust, for once. If it keeps Sam happy, he's not going to take it away from him.

He's a little reluctant to go back to work, even now, but staying home won't serve any useful purpose. Amanda said she'd try to come by tonight, maybe, so there's always that. Dean makes himself only think about work, about inventory and customers, and it actually kind of works. He's surprised to look up and find that it's nearly closing time, and that the store is mostly deserted. Sophie's standing by the front door, staring through the window, and she turns and beckons to him, an odd smile playing on her face.

"Dean, come here."

"What?" He's already moving toward her, leaving Perry lying in her usual spot behind the counter. He looks through the window in the direction she's pointing, and feels his heart skip a beat. "Oh my God."

It's Sam. Sam and Cas, actually, making their way slowly along the street toward the shop. Cas is leaning heavily on his borrowed cane, Sam latched on tightly to his other arm with both hands, but they're both making steady progress. Cas' head is up, and while he looks like he's feeling the strain from the effort of walking, he's also looking around curiously, taking in everything around him. It's impossible to see Sam's face even when they get closer, because his head is ducked too far down, but he's putting one foot in front of the other doggedly, propping Cas up as much as he's letting Cas urge him forward. Dean starts to go meet them, but Sophie puts a hand on his arm.

"You should wait. Let them have this."

He rubs a hand over his mouth, nods, even though everything in him is screaming at him to go fetch Sam, to get him out of a situation that's clearly terrifying him. He makes himself stay perfectly still until Cas and Sam get to the door of the shop and the little bells jingle and chime happily when Sam pushes it open. Cas steps inside first, Sam close on his heels, and looks around appreciatively.

"You've painted," he tells Sophie. He's pale and sweating from the exertion, lines of strain by his mouth, but he actually manages a small smile for Sophie the way Dean and Sam have been coaching him. "It looks... nice. It's a very soothing shade of yellow."

Sophie beams at the compliment. "Thank you. It took us two whole days of non-stop painting to get it all done. Let me get you a chair, you look done in from all that walking," she says, taking Cas' arm and leading him away slowly toward the cash register.

Dean wipes at his mouth again. "Sammy?"

It's Cas who answers, leaning on his cane to catch his breath while he eases himself into the chair Sophie found for him. "Sam felt that since I was feeling better, we should try walking outside, so that I might get some fresh air. We've been building up our walks a little at a time, but today I felt I might be up to walking all the way here to visit you, and Sam agreed."

Dean isn't sure he remembers how to breathe. "That right?"

Sam nods tightly, both hands clasped tightly enough to cut off the circulation to his fingers. He's shaking visibly, but he's standing his ground and not freaking out, and it's the best thing Dean has seen in weeks.

"Well, hey, I mean, that's great! You know I love it when you stop by, right? C'mere, Sammy," he says a little more softly.

Apparently that's all Sam was waiting for, because the next thing he knows he's got an armful of little brother trying very hard to burrow right into his chest cavity, forehead resting against his clavicle. Sam's shaking even harder now, but he's still here, still big and solid and real, fingers hooking into the fabric of his shirt. Dean brings up a hand to rub at his back.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam nods against his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."


End file.
